


Knucklebones

by arsons



Category: New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Conversations, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-06
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2019-12-26 16:51:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18286346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arsons/pseuds/arsons
Summary: “Let’s make a game out of it, yeah?” Ouma suggests. “You play along with me, and I’ll follow your little lecture as much as you want me to.”





	Knucklebones

Momota feels his intuition kick in by the time he reaches the top of the staircase. It’s less his perception—something that usually isn’t the _sharpest_ , he’ll admit—and more of just...an innate sense. Like some watchful eye is suspended above him in the air. He suspects for a moment that it might just be the presence of the grim Monokuma statues, some faux-icons that are simply too unsettling and untoward, but by then he’s turned around to spot the actual culprit of his hunch, perched between the two pieces as if completing a triptych, his mouth a smile and his feet dangling over the railing.

”Oh, _God_ ,” Momota groans, turning around fully to face him. “The fuck are you doing there like that?”

”Sitting,” Ouma shrugs, his voice a high, wispy lilt. He swings his legs a couple more times over the drop-off. “Waiting.”

Momota gets the slightest spike of anxiety in his gut at Ouma’s position, which is far too precarious; it’s a long way down from the staircase, and there’s nothing there to secure him. If he slips, then...

”Dude,” Momota starts. “Get fucking down from there. You’re gonna fall, and I don’t care who the hell you’re waiting for.”

“Don’t worry,” Ouma says, gesturing across to Momota. “He just got here.”

Momota lifts his own arm in a panicked reflex. ”Y-You’re hardly fucking supporting yourself now! Just get down already—you’re gonna break a goddamn bone or some shit!”

Ouma pouts at him. When he puffs his cheeks out, Momota can see the red-purple bruise that’s starting to form right under his eye where he hit him. He frowns, but before he can spend too much time inspecting it, Ouma spins backwards and hops down to the marble flooring.

Momota sighs quietly, relieved.

Ouma skips over around the railing to the stairs, the click of his shoes echoing with every step. ”Better?” he asks once he’s standing in front him.

Momota makes to answer, but Ouma is quicker.

”I’m preeetty darn surprised, though,” he drawls, throwing both his hands behind his head and tapping his foot out. “Momota-chan usually isn’t too concerned about my safety, you know? Would it matter to you if I broke my legs? They could just match my shattered cheekbone, riiight here,” he says, and he taps the bruise Momota spotted a moment earlier.

Momota frowns at it again. Ouma’s watching him carefully, and he sighs.

“That’s...what I came to talk about, actually, man.”

”To talk about, hmm? Not to apologize for?”

”No,” Momota forces, still frowning down at Ouma. “Not to fucking apologize for. You know goddamn well why I hit you. Even if I didn’t—“

”Wah, wah, that’s all white noise!” Ouma suddenly cuts him off. He breaks his pose to head back around the railing. “If you’re gonna talk about something boring, you can turn _right_  around and piss off. Bye-bye!”

Momota blinks. The fuck is he—?

“D-Dude!” Momota yells, taking quick steps after him, incensed. “You can’t just fucking decide what’s important or not about what I’ve gotta say!”

Ouma spins on his heel to face Momota. “Mhmm, just did!” he says, walking backwards. “Wasn’t too hard to do, Momota-chan. You started saying words, so I _knew_  they must be _abysmally_ dumb and scripted—“

”Shut up!” Momota says. “Fucking hell. Stop being so goddamn _stupid_ and just _listen_ for—“

”Stupid? I think listening to your lectures is what makes me feel the _most_  stupid.”

”Yeah, fucking _hilarious_ , you’re real—“

“Funny? Correct? Or are you gonna—“

”Ouma!” Momota yells, and that finally gets him to pause. Or, perhaps not; they’ve stopped at the landing directly in front of the large, gothic-style window that’s allowing evening light to pour in with a deep, orange glow. Momota hardly realizes it until they’re standing there.

Ouma glances towards the window and the barrier that lies beyond it. If they stepped closer, they could peer down into the courtyard below them, small and far-off from their level in the building. There’s something hypnotic about it; it’s almost a breathtaking view, and it might have truly been one if they weren’t in such desperate circumstances. The sun is dipped low in the sky past the wall, but that does nothing to diminish its vibrancy, even if they can’t feel its warmth. That’s another thing Momota almost misses until it registers—the sunlight isn’t warm. Weird. He follows Ouma’s eyes out in the horizon until they flit back to his, and then he takes a breath.

Ouma says, “Doesn’t looking out _there_ from _here_ make you feel like a bunch of little ants God could crush on a whim?”

”Uh,” Momota says. “No?”

”Hm,” Ouma shrugs.

Momota takes the lapse as an opportunity to jump back in.

”Alright,” he says. “Ouma. We need to have an actual fucking talk, and you know it. And you’re not gonna scream over me.”

“Doubtful,” Ouma says. “What’s in it for me?”

”The fuck do you mean _what’s_ _in_ _it_ _for_ _you?_ If you’d shut up and actually _communicate_  with me for once like a real goddamn person—“

”No, that doesn’t sound good enough,” Ouma interjects. “If you take, you’ve gotta give, right? Quid pro quo is just a rule of life. So how about a game?”

Momota groans, and he tips his head back to stare at the ceiling in exasperation.

If there had been a dip in Ouma’s tone to signify his upcoming proposition, he might’ve been confused by where he was coming from. Instead, Ouma’s words are steady and spoken with no hesitation; it’s not a question poised by someone acting spontaneously.

Of course it’s not. It’s _Ouma_. He’s planned something, naturally.

“What the hell does that even mean?” Momota asks anyway.

”Let’s make a game out of it, yeah?” Ouma suggests. “You play along with me, and I’ll follow your little lecture as much as you want me to.”

”And your fucking catch?” Momota prompts.

”Nishishi... You don’t trust me to play fairly, huh?”

”Fuck no. Now what is it?”

“Hm... Loser has to cut his fingers off while the other one watches.”

Momota recoils. “Shut the fuck up,” he seethes. “I don’t even have to deal with your shit. I can fucking say no and leave.”

”Fed up with me  _already?_ We haven’t even started. But, there’s no catch, alright? As long as Momota-chan stays entertaining for me, I’ll try considering his words. Is that a deal?”

”First off, I’m not your goddamn entertainment—“

”Maybe not _mine_ , really.”

”—but if I play whatever with you, are you actually gonna fucking consider what I say?”

Ouma blinks. “What do you think?”

Momota squints at him.

”Hey—Momota-chan, don’t give me that look! I’m a versatile guy! I _love_ considering new points of view! My secret organization is actually dedicated to understanding and empathizing with our victims before we kill them. And—hey, don’t give me _that_ look, either! It was a lie, of course. We only torture and maim them. So how about it?”

Momota sighs hard. Ouma wrings his hands, rocking back and forth on his heels.

”...What’s the game?” Momota finally asks.

Ouma smiles. In a second, he’s produced a small, cloth bag from the pocket of his shirt.

”Jacks,” he says.

”Jacks?” Momota echoes.

”Yeah,” Ouma says, shaking the bag. “Jacks, you know? You’ve played them before, haven’t you?”

Momota thinks hard, trying to pull up some deep, buried memories in the corners of his mind. “Maybe?” he says. “When I was a kid, probably. Where the hell did you even get those?”

”Found ‘em,” Ouma says. “It’s okay, though. I can go over the rules if you’ve forgotten.”

Momota frowns. All this to tell some brat not to fuck around with death threats... He’s grateful, at least, that he doesn’t have to do anything dangerous, which he hadn’t put past Ouma to suggest. Momota drops to his knees when Ouma does the same.

”The goal of the game,” Ouma says, dumping their supplies on the ground. He sits cross-legged and pulls them into a pile. “Is to complete tensies before your opponent does.”

Momota mirrors Ouma’s position. “Tensies?”

”Yep,” Ouma says. “Tensies. You start with onesies and work up each round until you beat them all.”

”Can’t we, uh, just call ‘em rounds one and ten?”

”Nishishi, do the titles embarrass you? Momota-chan, that’s kind of cute...”

”Okay, shut up. Whatever. _Onesies_. What is it?”

Ouma picks up the single ball in the pile and holds it out in his palm. “Every time you bounce this,” he says, “you pick up one jack. That’s onesies. When you have it in your hand, you have to catch the ball as it comes back down.”

”With the hand holding the jack?”

”That’s right. If you do it successfully, you transfer the jack to your other hand and repeat it until you get all ten.”

Momota blinks at the ball. “Sounds easy enough.”

Ouma smiles. “Sure,” he says. “Twosies comes after onesies—that’s when you pick up two jacks at a time with your hand. Then threesies, then foursies, and on and on until tensies when you’re grabbing all ten. If you finish a round, your opponent goes after you, then you go after them with your new round. If you fault out of a round, you restart it on your next turn.”

“How do you fault out?” Momota asks.

”You screw up,” Ouma shrugs. “There’s all kinds of ways to ruin your chances.”

Momota raises an eyebrow.

”Missing the ball,” Ouma provides as an example. “Not catching it. Throwing it too far. Being too slow.” He presses a finger to his lips. “Being too bad.”

”...Right.”

“Did you get all that?” Ouma asks. He tilts his head. “It’s pretty simple, Momota-chan. I’d feel bad if you were too slow to follow.”

Momota grits his teeth. “I’m not fucking slow, idiot. Can we just start this shit already?”

Ouma clicks his tongue. “Someone sounds eager.”

”Eager for you to fucking talk to me.”

”Ooh, right. That part.”

”Yeah,” Momota says. “ _That_ part. You can start your stupid game when you’re ready.”

“Ouch, Momota-chan! You’re really aiming for my heart tonight, aren’t you? Well, whatever. I’m playing to win, so you better be prepared to lose.”

Momota rolls his eyes. “Yeah, right. Just go already.”

Ouma hesitates, the ball still in his hand, staring down at the jacks. After a moment, he scatters them out more so none are touching, then stares at them for a beat longer. Momota almost asks what’s wrong, but then Ouma suddenly raises his head to look at him.

“Let’s switch something up,” he says. “We might as well make it more fun while we’re at it. Don’t you agree?”

Momota snorts, derisive. “Depends on what the hell you’d consider _fun_.”

Ouma continues to look at him, as if searching his expression. Whatever he finds causes him to say, “Put your hands out.”

Momota pulls a face.

”Just do it, you weenie.”

“Fuckin’—fine, dude!” Momota huffs, and complies.

Ouma waits until he’s ready. ”Which one’s your dominant hand?” he asks.

“Does that _matter?_ ”

“It matters for this game, Momota-chan! _Duh_. So don’t be so shy about it. Which hand?”

Momota might’ve spoken, but Ouma doesn’t wait for his answer. Instead, he places his left hand atop Momota’s right one, hooks his thumb against his palm, and flips it over.

“It’s this one, isn’t it?” Ouma says. He presses at the soft base of Momota’s thumb—right under his wrist—with the pad of his own, and then he slowly traces it down until only the ends of their fingers are touching; they wait like that for a moment—a long moment, surely, that seems to drag on forever, their thumbprints resting against each other’s—until Ouma carefully retracts his hand, breaking their contact, and drops it back to his side.

Momota doesn’t comment on that. It’s—a weirdly intimate gesture, and if it’s meant to provoke him, he’s not about to give Ouma the satisfaction. It’s abject kindness as a tool to piss him off, he’s sure. Though, he’s never known anyone like Ouma who was so willing to weaponize his companionship.

Ouma only smiles at him.

Momota blinks. “You just used your left hand, didn’t you? So that’s _your_ dominant one?”

“...No,” Ouma says. He shakes his head. “Of course not. I’m ambidextrous.”

”Wh—That’s not fuckin’ true!”

”Heyyy, of course it’s true! I’m a secret supreme leader of evil, after all. I need every single asset of mine to help with—“

”God, dude, just shut up. If you’re making us play with our non-dominant hands, then you’re using your right one.”

Ouma seems pleased with that. “Alright, Momota-chan,” he agrees. Then he frowns. “Hm... You caught on to my rule pretty quickly, though.”

Momota snorts. “Not like you tried to keep it a secret.”

“No, of course I did! That’s why I didn’t reveal it. Boo-hoo that you went and ruined the surprise.”

“Yeah, sure thing.”

Ouma gives half a smile. “Well, if we’ve decided on how to run this...” He holds the ball out in front of Momota. “I’ll be kind and give you the first turn.”

Momota hesitates, but he reaches out and takes it.

”Just—bounce it, get a jack, and catch it, right?”

”Yup. With your left hand; don’t forget.”

”I didn’t, dude. Uh,” Momota says, squinting at the way Ouma arranged the jacks on the ground. “Okay, then. I’m starting.”

”Gotcha.” Ouma leans closer right before Momota tosses the ball. “And, just so you know, you’ll have until I win to talk my ear off.”

Momota rolls his eyes. “Right. Okay.”

His first throw is definitely too much, but it’s successful; Ouma’s eyes follow the ball high up in the air when Momota bounces it much harder than he’d meant to. He waits with the jack in his fingers, and when the ball comes down, he catches it against his palm with a smack. For some stupid reason, he feels the slightest bit proud for not dropping his first one. He transfers the jack to his right hand and gets ready to go again.

Ouma sighs. “Are we done dancing around this, then?”

”I’d fucking hope,” Momota says. He successfully collects another jack.

”Alright, good!” Ouma trills. He claps his hands together. “First, the _elephant_ in the room,” he says, dragging his words out sarcastically. “I’ve been icing my poor, broken face since this morning.”

“Uh,” Momota says. “Good, that helps.”

”G—H-Hey, Momota-chan!?” Ouma splutters. “ _Good?_ You’re reeeally not gonna apologize for it, are you?”

“Are you gonna fuckin’ apologize for saying all that shit you did about playing the killing game to win?” Momota scoffs. On his next throw, his aim is awry; the ball bounces at far too wide an angle and goes up in Ouma’s direction. Ouma sticks his hand out at once and catches it with no problem.

Momota flinches at that.

Ouma pulls the ball back down to himself. “I play all games to win,” he says.

“...You have some weird goddamn timing,” Momota replies. As Ouma uncurls his fist and rescatters Momota’s jacks, Momota sighs. “Though, out of what I just said to you, that’s all you’re gonna try and comment on?”

“Obviously,” Ouma says. Right before he takes his first turn, he brings the ball to his mouth and kisses it; he bounces it and collects his jack swiftly, not in any awkward manner like Momota was fumbling with. Momota almost asks him what that was, but Ouma continues talking. “I hate being accused of treating games like jokes. I take _everything_ very seriously. Nobody hates jokes more than I hate jokes.”

Momota almost laughs. “Yeah fucking right you do.”

Ouma continues his collection. “So, no apology,” he says.

”Dude, I’d straight up punch you _again_ if you repeated any of the shit you said this morning.”

”Hm.”

Momota watches him work for some seconds. Ouma plays the game almost clinically—he’s completely methodical. He transitions smoothly between bouncing the ball, collecting his jacks, transferring them to his free hand, and repeating. Momota wonders if he’s practiced this a lot, sitting by himself in his bedroom or something. Alone, just working at some kids’ game, over and over and over.

Momota doesn’t like the way that thought makes him feel. He pushes it from his mind.

He focuses again on Ouma’s hands, coming upon the end of his first round. He _really_ isn’t awkward in any sense; in fact, it’s _so_ practiced that Momota considers that he might actually be ambidextrous after all, or maybe—

Or maybe the whole weird-ass handholding wasn’t to piss him off, but just to confuse him.

Fuck that. It worked.

Momota takes a deep breath and releases it just as Ouma grabs his final jack, places it in his left hand, and announces, “That’s onesies.”

”Yeah,” Momota agrees. “It was, jackass. And you’re a rightie.”

”Whaaat?” Ouma drawls, tilting his head to the side. He quickly goes from looking innocent to mischievous. “Say it ain’t so, Momota-chan.”

”Ugh,” Momota groans, taking the ball from him. “Screw that... Whatever.”

Ouma throws all his jacks back in front of them and messes with the ones that are too close together. Momota tosses his first ball and completely recreates his failure from last round, but worse. The thing hits a hard angle and flies entirely to the other side of the room.

He blinks.

”I’ll get it!” Ouma cheers. He scrambles to his feet quickly and chases after it.

Momota watches him curiously. Ouma has all the exaggerated, lurching movements you might see in the villain of a silent film, an unusual mix of both high-knees and tiptoes. It’s an odd contrast to the precision Momota just saw him perform with his hands. It’s also an odd contrast to his soft face, smiling in the evening light as he turns around to wave the recovered ball at Momota.

”What a try,” he snickers.

Momota frowns. If he weren’t such a jackass, Ouma might be cute, Momota thinks. In a really...unique, bizarre way, maybe.

Ouma settles in front of him yet again, making sure the jacks are still in an arrangement he likes. Momota averts his eyes from his bruise right as Ouma brings the ball to his mouth to kiss it for a second time.

Momota isn’t distracted for that one. ”Why do you keep doing that?” he asks.

Ouma glances up at him, pausing just as he’s about to throw the ball. He raises an eyebrow. “Doing what?”

”Y’know, the,” Momota waves his hand, “with the ball.”

Ouma blinks for a second, then he suddenly chimes, “Oh!” and lowers the ball back down to inspect it. “Oh, well,” he says, rolling it between his thumb and index finger. “It’s my good luck charm, Momota-chan. I realized if you kiss things, you can make them work allll that much better. I picked it up after Hoshi-chan talked about luck when we were in the casino.” He smiles and brings a finger to his lips. “Y’know, before he got drowned in a sink, of course.”

Momota scowls at him. “Dude, you _didn’t_  fucking need that last part.”

”Would you have preferred it if I lied? Wow, okay, you’re being really weird today,” Ouma shrugs, then tosses the ball.

He collects his pairs of jacks like a machine, and Momota’s gaze travels from his hands and back up to the bruise still marring his face. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting—the thing to miraculously disappear if he didn’t pay attention to it? Any anger and annoyance he’d felt at Ouma’s last remark tampers away into nothing, quickly.

Just as Ouma is picking up his third set of jacks, Momota finally relents. “Look,” he sighs, awkwardly rubbing the back of his head. Ouma stills for just a second. “Ouma. If it makes you feel better, I _am_ sorry for hurting you. But I’m still _not_  fucking sorry for shutting you up.”

Ouma seems to consider that. Then he bounces the ball again. “Resorting to violence is a pretty slippery slope, Momota-chan.”

Momota is actually taken aback. “What, violence to get you to stop saying you’ll fuck us up?”

Ouma grimaces. “Mhm, I didn’t say it like that.”

“Uh, it sounded pretty fuckin’ much like a threat to me!” Momota accuses. “You know, by the way you said you were gonna fucking kill someone to have fun with it? Remember?”

”You’re being sooo dramatic,” Ouma says. He shakes his head. “What was so bad about what I said, anyway?”

Momota scoffs in disbelief. ”What’s so bad about saying you’ll _kill_ _someone?_ ”

”Yeah, duh. It’s why we’re here, you know. Don’t tell me you missed the whole ‘killing game’ song and dance.”

“Th-That’s not why we’re here!” Momota counters. “It’s not some fucking game, you weirdo, just because some piece of shit bear told us it was! Can’t you see you’re being super fucking sick and insensitive for making light of the crap that’s happened? Some of—some of our friends have died already, man... None of us are fucking enjoying this.”

Ouma considers that as well, then bounces for his final set. He gets them. “Speak for yourself, Momota-chan,” he says, looking up. “I’m having _lots_ of fun.”

When Ouma offers the ball out for Momota to take, Momota grabs his wrist instead. Ouma lets the ball drop to the ground and squints up at him.

”Okay, handsy—“

”I _know_ you don’t mean that,” Momota says. “You’re just bluffing.”

Ouma turns his nose up. “What,” he huffs, “you read minds now, is that it? I’m not really a bluffer like you’d think! I actually don’t ever bluff or lie at all, so—“

”Dude, I can tell from just looking at you,” Momota says. He tugs him closer. “You’re a pretty tense guy, huh?”

Ouma’s expression goes from a melodramatic snobbish to plain sour at once. “ _What?_ ” he says, squinting.

Momota sighs. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed that you’re stressed the hell out,” he says. “I mean, you didn’t say anything like what you did earlier when we first got to this place. I don’t think your shitty sense of humor’s changed, I just think that you’re feeling as trapped as all of us, and you’re using some weird fucking jokes to cope with it, maybe. Even if they’re gross as hell, and you gotta cut them out.”

Ouma blinks at him. “That’s...” he starts, then pauses to swallow. “ _That’s_ what you think is going on with me?”

”Yeah,” Momota says. His free hand goes behind his head again. “Am I wrong?”

Ouma twists his wrist lightly in Momota’s grip, but he makes no real attempt to free himself from it. Instead of pulling away or sitting back on his knees, he stares into Momota’s face until his lips begin to curve up into a grin again.

“Well,” he says. “That was a _little_ bit entertaining, Momota-chan.”

“...Huh?”

”I said you could talk if you were entertaining, remember? And _that_ was kinda entertaining. Congrats!”

Momota blinks at him. “Uh... I thought me playing jacks with you was your entertainment, man.”

”Oh,” Ouma adds, then rolls his eyes almost dismissively. “That is, too.”

The two of them look at each other for a moment, a swift reprise of introspection; Momota can’t help wondering what Ouma’s really thinking, and then he wonders if Ouma wants to know what he’s thinking, too. Their back-and-forth has seemed to run into wall after wall, just as it always has; for once, Momota had only been hoping for different results. He’s not sure if he’s getting them.

Ouma eventually sets his free hand on top of Momota’s at his wrist. ”You don’t take me seriously enough, do you?” he says.

Momota snorts at that. “I don’t take your threats seriously, if that’s what you’re asking,” he answers. “I mean... I still don’t want you fucking saying them—nobody needs that shit—but yeah, I don’t think you’re being honest about ‘em.”

Ouma raises an eyebrow. “If you’re so sure I’m lying, then why bother trying to get through to me?”

”’Cause I know—“

”Oh!” Ouma suddenly interjects. “Oh, nooo!” he drawls. “Wait! I baited you into saying something stupid, didn’t I? Are you gonna talk about how passionate and dedicated you are to protecting everyone from my scary, evil words? Even though you know that you can’t stop them?”

Momota frowns at him. “I didn’t say that. But, dude, say what you fucking want,” he says. “Not trying to fix this would still be worse than failing at it.”

Ouma falls silent for a moment, as if truly poring over Momota’s words. His eyes stray to somewhere on the other side of the room, and after a few seconds, he makes eye contact again; he squeezes the hand he has atop Momota’s.

”I agree, Momota-chan,” he finally says. “I think some of our classmates probably felt the same.”

Momota has nothing to answer that with. He can’t actually tell if it’s a concession, insult, or general statement, and Ouma’s face reveals nothing about his intent. After watching and failing to read him, Momota glances down to the jacks still between them, and he coughs uncomfortably, scratching near his temple.

”...Pretty sure it’s my turn,” he decides to say.

Ouma’s eyebrows go up. “Oh,” he says, remembering their game as well. “Right, right. Your turn, yep.”

As Momota moves to pull his hand away from Ouma’s, Ouma impulsively pulls it back in the opposite direction; it catches Momota off guard, and he doesn’t immediately realize what’s happening as Ouma takes his hand close, carefully curls his fingers down, and kisses right behind his knuckles, softly.

Momota suddenly draws back in surprise.

”Wh-What did you—!? Why did...” Momota trails off, his spark of anger dying with his words. Part of him wants to yell, but mostly he’s just—not sure what just happened. He frowns. “Why the hell did you do that?”

Ouma rests his chin in his hand, his expression unreadable. “Good luck charm,” he reminds Momota with a shrug. “Remember?”

Momota makes a face. He shakes his hand out as if doing so will remove any trace of being kissed from it, or at least remove the peculiar charge in the air that came with the action. “You don’t have to do that shit again, dude. It’s...not gonna help, or anything.”

”Hm, well,” Ouma hums. “Your loss if you don’t want it. I’m just trying to help poor, little Momota-chan get ahead in our game.”

”I don’t need your damn help to do anything, alright?”

”Fine,” Ouma says. Smiles. “Sure.”

Momota completes onesies that round.

Of course he does, because of course he would. It’s _obviously_ a coincidence, but it pisses him off nonetheless.

Ouma huffs and drawls out, ”Told ya sooo!”

Momota ignores him. As they lean in to exchange the ball between them, their fingers brush together, and Ouma takes that opportunity to grab onto Momota again.

Momota stills, cautiously, as Ouma blinks up at him.

“Maybe,” Ouma says, his voice low, like he’s confiding a secret of some sort. “Maybe...I should’ve kissed your hand before you punched me.” He tightens his grip the slightest bit more. “I just had to think... Maybe it would’ve saved me some grief.”

Momota squints. He still doesn’t move his hand. “I really fucking doubt that.”

Ouma’s smile gets even more conspiratorial. “Maybe I should kiss your mouth, too,” he breathes, leaning closer. “Maybe then you’ll stop swearing so much.”

Enough time has elapsed that the light shining in through the windows is no longer a burning orange, but a dull gray, the sun finally set away beyond the wall for the night. It only serves to make Ouma look harsher; if he were almost cute earlier, like Momota had decided, he’s now toeing the line between that and just creepy. It comes in flickers; with the newly dimmed lighting, Momota can’t tell what his face most resembles.

“Or...maybe I should just offer to. That’s seemed to shut you up pretty well.”

Momota realizes he didn’t answer him.

”...Ouma,” he finally says. “That’d just bring you right back around to getting punched again.”

Ouma seems amused by that. “Nishishi!” he giggles, covering his mouth. He leans away. “Ah, you’re funny, Momota-chan.” He pulls his hand back to ready his turn. “Threesies,” he announces, then begins just like that.

It’s an immediate shift from his prior behavior, and—what the hell, Momota recalls, wasn’t this supposed to be some sort of exchange? Quid pro quo, Ouma had said. All Momota’s gotten is more lies, mind games, and some strange brand of...maybe-flirting? The latter being a mix, perhaps, of the two former. It’s—weird and embarrassing. He’s not entirely sure what to make of it, but then again, it’s Ouma he’s talking to. He’s never entirely sure what to make of him. All he wanted was for the kid to stop fucking around.

He should leave. Momota should just leave, but...he stays, watching Ouma play, falling silent simultaneously. He’s not too sure as to why.

The two of them trade turns for the next quarter of an hour, Momota failing his twosies round repeatedly as Ouma continues upward. By the time Ouma reaches his seventh round, the sky is closer to an ink-like color, and seeing the game in front of them becomes more and more difficult.

”Horses before carriage,” Ouma says, successfully pulling seven jacks at once.

Momota sighs begrudgingly at the quip and rests his face in his hand. “You know,” he says, right as Ouma takes his last three. “Most of these rounds aren’t even split evenly.”

”Oh, I know,” Ouma says, handing him the ball. “That just makes it fun.”

”Does it?”

”Sure,” Ouma shrugs. “I love changing things up. Don’t you like it when the rules have some wiggle room for interpretation?”

Momota frowns, and he tries for twosies again.

Ouma watches him collect his first set, an attempt that he was failing more often than not. “If you want,” he starts to offer, “I could kiss your hand again.”

”I’ll fucking pass,” Momota says, steadying to throw. He’s not ready to start up whatever the hell they were doing before. He’d prefer if it never happened again at all, really.

Ouma stifles a giggle that trails into a quiet hum, and he continues to watch him. “Suit yourself.”

Momota bounces the ball, collects another pair of jacks, and catches it. He transfers them to his right hand and prepares to go again.

”Did you know jacks used to be called knucklebones?” Ouma suddenly says.

Momota pauses. “Uh,” he says. “What?”

“Yeah,” Ouma continues, “it’s ‘cause instead of using plastic or metal, the pieces used to be made out of sheep bones. Or, they’d just _be_ sheep bones in general. Knuckle ones. Kids would play with them.”

“That’s fucking gross,” Momota grimaces. “Don’t lie about weird shit like that, man.”

Ouma starts a bit. ”Hey, it’s not a lie!” he claims, pointing. “Believe me, Momota-chan, Shinguuji-chan told me _all_ about it before he got boiled alive in a clay pot!”

Momota screws his face up in disgust and lets out a little huff of disbelief. “ _Still_ ,” he stresses. “You’re still gonna say that kinda shit when you don’t have to?”

”Still,” Ouma echoes, almost mocking his tone. “You’ll get mad at me for being honest about what happened?”

“Look, that’s not honesty, dude. That’s just being overly fuckin’ cruel.”

”And that,” Ouma says, “is life!” He watches Momota collect another pair of jacks and speaks again before Momota can get a word in. “Hey,” he shrugs, “if you weren’t so rude, we could cut _your_ hand open and use your bones, instead.”

Momota sets the ball down and looks up at him. “What the hell is it gonna take for you to shut up about this kind of crap?”

”What would it _take?_ ” Ouma repeats. He taps his chin in thought, the cutting movement now only vaguely perceptible through the darkness. “Well,” he ponders, “I guess...it would take me becoming a different person, wouldn’t it?”

”Dude, you don’t have to be a different person,” Momota says, sighing. “You can just be a better one.”

”And that’s a different one,” Ouma challenges. “Don’t you see that?”

Momota rubs his chin. “That’s not true. It can just be self-improvement.”

”But it’s actually self-destruction,” Ouma says. “Isn’t it? It’s breaking yourself down past a foundation and building back up into someone new. Momota-chan, you really want me to change for you—or for anyone else, at that matter? No, I don’t think I’d do that. What a selfish request.”

”Look, I— _Ouma_ , what the fuck?” Momota hisses. He realizes he’s still holding his jacks, stupidly, and tosses them to the side. “You have a fucking excuse for everything, don’t you? That’s not even what I—God, I thought you said you were actually gonna  _listen_ to me or some shit.”

”I said I’d consider your words,” Ouma corrects. “And I am. And I don’t like them.”

”Then doesn’t it go both fuckin’ ways? You’re, I don’t fucking know, asking _me_ to change my own self to get over your shitty personality.”

”No, I’m not. I wouldn’t even _want_ you to do that. It’s why we’re having so much fun together.”

”This _isn’t_ fucking fun.”

”No,” Ouma admits, “not really, I guess. But it _does_ make a pretty great spectacle.”

Momota attempts to blink through the darkness until he can make out the expression residing on Ouma’s face: a smile, warm and charming, with his hand folded against his cheek, right under the bruise.

”I wonder,” Ouma continues airily when Momota doesn’t follow up, “what Momota Kaito thinks this game is on a trajectory towards.”

That line seems to echo, an ugly pause filling the air right after.

”God,” Momota eventually breathes, “what are you even  _talking_ _about?_ ”

In the darkness, Momota can only rely on Ouma’s voice to reveal his demeanor; it’s impossible to read his body language from where he’s sitting. Though, that becomes less of a problem when Ouma grabs Momota’s wrists and yanks him close into the space between them.

Ouma meets him in the middle, their faces inches apart.

“Do you remember our first day here, Momota-chan? When we all met each other for the very first time? Before we found out that the only way to leave was to die or kill someone else.”

”Uh,” Momota whispers.

”Monokuma called it a prologue. Do you think he did that for a reason?”

“Are,” Momota swallows. “Are you asking me that, like, as a question...?”

”Yeah,” Ouma says, quietly. “I am. I want to know what you think.” When Momota doesn’t answer right away, Ouma presses, “ _Really_ , Momota-chan. Come on.”

”Wh-What I think?” Momota stutters. “I—I mean—I don’t know? He probably did it just ‘cause he’s a weird-ass freak who says stupid shit for no reason...”

Ouma is quiet for a second.

Momota waits.

Then Ouma says, “I don’t think so, Momota-chan. I think he has other reasons.”

”...Yeah?” Momota asks. “Like what, then?”

Ouma falls quiet again, and all he allows that time is a soft, “Hm.”

Momota waits some more, still held tight by Ouma’s hands at both of his wrists. The moon must be rising on the other side of the sky; the room remains dark, but there’s a reflective gloss in Ouma’s eyes now, just barely illuminated by the light.

He blinks, and it goes out.

“Ouma,” Momota says. “What are you trying to say?”

Ouma’s fingers tighten around him. “Don’t you think...if there’s a prologue and a start, there has to be an end and an epilogue, too? Wouldn’t that just make sense?”

Momota contemplates that for a second. “N...No?” he settles on. “I-I think that you’re overthinking shit, maybe, dude...”

Ouma exhales, audibly.

“So that’s how you feel, then.”

Momota stalls. “Uh,” he says. “I’m just not...getting what the hell you’re talking about...”

“No,” Ouma says, and releases him. “I guess I didn’t expect you to.”

They’re silent for a moment.

”Are you okay?” Momota asks impulsively. “You’re always fucking weird, man, but that got really fucking weird, really fucking fast. I don’t—like...were you trying to say something about, I don’t know, Monokuma having more plans for us or some shit?”

Ouma makes a quiet noise in the back of his throat. “Maybe.”

”Maybe?” Momota repeats.

”Yeah,” Ouma says. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

”Wh—What do you mean you don’t know?” Momota falters. “Ouma? You were just saying all kinds of—“

”Hey,” Ouma cuts him off. “Enough about this, okay? We’ve talked about it too much already. _And_ me, for that matter. I think we should talk about _you_ instead, Momota-chan.”

Momota pauses at that. The way they’re sitting, it feels like Ouma’s voice is coming from both in front of him and around him, echoing off of the marble. That only makes it harder to read his tone, and without being able to see him, Momota suddenly isn’t sure what Ouma’s trying to pull. It’s like being alone with a stranger.

“What?” Momota says. “Why? I came here to talk about _your_ bullshit.”

”Takes two to tango!” Ouma cheers. “So we really _should_ start talking about you. I feel like our little game has been _such_ an enlightening experience for me!” His voice starts to edge on the verge of sarcastic. “I’ve learned _so_ much about simple, little Momota-chan that I wouldn’t have known otherwise.”

“Are...” Momota starts, and then it hits him at once. “Dude, are you making fun of me?”

“No,” Ouma chirps. “Course not.”

“Yeah, you are,” Momota grits out, heat rising back to his voice. “What the fuck? I thought we were...”

“ _Don’t_ say friends. Please, Momota-chan, you can’t _actually_ be that corny.”

Momota scoffs. “I wasn’t going to!” 

“Oh, good,” Ouma says, his voice lilting high on a grating laugh, “I wouldn’t want to be friends with such an idiot, anyways!”

”The fuck is wrong with you!? You were completely fucking fine five minutes ago—!”

”Momota-chan,” Ouma cuts him off.

Momota stills at his tone.

”...Huh?”

“You don’t like the truth much either, do you?”

”Wh...” Momota says. “What?”

Ouma’s hand reaches out and finds his in the darkness. Despite the uneasiness building around them, Momota can’t help but feel relieved at the contact, which helps reorient him. He holds on.

”Lies of omission are the worst,” Ouma says. “Don’t you think?”

“The hell does that mean?”

“Lies of omission, like keeping secrets,” Ouma clarifies. “Hm... Keeping secrets, huh?” He taps his fingers along the side of Momota’s hand. “It _is_ something a liar like me has been known to do. But sometimes it’s a little bit too dangerous, you know? It becomes pretty cruel and unusual.”

”What—that’s not... Wait, go back. What?”

Ouma doesn’t stop. “It must say a lot that a guy like me knows how malicious it is to keep secrets. Not sharing such important information...it’s pretty awful and selfish. So, come on,” he finishes. “It’ll be worse if I have to say it.”

”C-Come on and  _what?_ ” Momota breathes. “Seriously, what the hell are you fucking talking about?” His question of the night, the week, the whole fucking game—what the hell Ouma ever truly means when he speaks.

“You know what I’m talking about,” Ouma assures. His free hand goes for Momota’s knee, and Momota flinches backwards; his eyes are adjusted enough that he can tell Ouma has crowded in front of his face. “Just think,” he whispers, his voice high and accusatory, “ _really_ , really hard about it.”

Momota grabs Ouma’s scarf to keep him at arm’s length, but Ouma keeps going.

”That bad, huh? You already know that everyone else who decided not to share ended up dead. Are you willing to follow trends right up until they kill you?”

Momota digs his nails into the fabric. “Look,” he seethes, “I still don’t know what the fuck you mean, but it’s pretty goddamn bold to accuse _me_ of lying when you’re right fucking here!”

Ouma giggles, and it doesn’t sound like his usual, childish laugh. Momota screws his face up in the dark. “Nishishi! Ohhh, Momota-chan, you’re hilarious!” His voice rises in both pitch and volume. “What’d you say it is? _Bold?_ Huuuh, but is it really? You know, I’m starting to think you and I aren’t that much different at all!”

“We couldn’t be less fucking alike!” Momota nearly snarls, trying to lean back and away from him. It doesn’t work; Ouma only follows, and the hand that was in his vanishes, only to reappear a second later at the nape of Momota’s neck.

”H-Hey—!?”

”I’ll admit,” Ouma says, “we do have _some_ differences.” The hand on Momota’s knee also disappears; Ouma’s own knee replaces it as he takes to kneeling on him, and the hand goes for his jaw, instead. Momota’s reaction is instant; he moves up from Ouma’s scarf to mirror the hold on his own face.

“ _What_ ,“ he grits, “the _fuck_ —“

“For one, you’re _pathetic_ ,” Ouma sneers, “and boring, and predictable—“

”Get the _fuck off of—!_ ”

“I _should’ve_ kissed you,” Ouma laughs, and his breath comes out warm against Momota’s mouth. “For luck. To keep you from swearing, yeah, that’s a good one—“

“Wh... What are you...“

”—and you know,” Ouma whispers, “maybe it would’ve helped you stop coughing, too.”

Momota freezes.

It’s silent.

From what he can see of him, Ouma blinks hard a few times, perhaps trying to better adjust his eyesight. The hand at Momota’s neck slackens and drifts forward to rest at his collarbone.

”No,” Ouma whispers again. “It wouldn’t have, would it...? Momota-chan...you’ll need much more than luck for that.”

Momota sits quietly for a few, long seconds, waiting for—for— _something_ , for Ouma to _do_ something, but he doesn’t, and—his mind is somehow both blank and racing, desperately, and when Ouma _finally_ makes one little sound, almost inaudibly, maybe accidentally, Momota crashes back down to earth.

He tightens his grip against Ouma’s face and shoves him backwards, hard. Ouma stumbles off of him.

”Ack—hey!” Ouma huffs, collecting himself quickly. “Don’t be so _pushy_ —“

“What the fuck did you say,” Momota demands.

A laugh gets stifled. “ _Damage control_ ,” Ouma lilts. He sighs, almost dreamily, mostly resigned. “And so soon. As expected.”

“Don’t fuck around with me!” Momota yells, and despite pushing Ouma away not a moment prior, he has his hand back in his scarf in an instant, dragging him closer. “I want to know what the hell you said, and what the _hell_ you meant by it!”

Ouma’s hand lands on top of Momota’s. “I don’t _have_ to repeat it,” he spits. “You already _know_.”

Both of their grips tighten, and they’re so close together again, and then—and then it’s Momota’s fault for faltering. He gets too near, just like before, and Ouma makes the exact same sound he did, when he was practically on top of him, right as soon as he...

The kid is elusive, and he’s already on the other side of the landing before Momota can react.

Momota blinks. He gets to his feet.

”...Sorry,” Ouma calls to him, strained. “Didn’t... I didn’t...want an encore, of this morning.”

”I wouldn’t have,” Momota breathes, then stops himself.

He wouldn’t have—he wouldn’t have _what?_ Punched him? Yelled at him?

...Kissed him?

Suddenly, it’s like he’s being gutted.

It’s like being set on fire; Momota’s whole body feels like it’s going into adrenaline overdrive, and if he’s got some metaphorical wire and conductors holding him together, they’re metaphorically melting into hot, metallic paste, and he _still_ can’t sort every single emotion he’s experiencing, all at once, as they assault him. Like some defunct machine that’s gone up in sparks and smoke while attempting to process too much. That’s him; short-circuiting.

It shouldn’t be possible to feel that much, Momota thinks. It shouldn’t be. But it is; it has to be, because it’s happening, right now, and it’s awful.

Ouma stays just as quiet as he does.

Momota...can’t see Ouma’s face from there, but his voice had cracked when he’d spoken. He wants to know if Ouma is experiencing this, too. This...tangle of everything, vying for control. God, he hopes so. Spitefully. Longingly.

How fucking embarrassing.

When his heart finally begins to calm, and it doesn’t feel like his chest is on the brink of splintering apart anymore, an undercurrent of anger remains above everything else. He focuses on that, claws for it, and takes a breath, trying to hold it together.

”I’m not fucking dumb,” Momota forces out.

“N—No?” Ouma responds. “...Could’ve fooled me.”

They’re arguing immaturely. Good. It’s familiar.

”You...saw something, then.”

Ouma hesitates. “Heard it,” he says. “You don’t hide it very well. Trying to run when you have that kind of problem...?”

Momota instantly knows where he’s slipped up.

“Wrong choice.”

Momota sighs, hard. “So you’re gonna tell everyone.”

”No. Not now. Are you?”

The anger Momota feels in that moment is quiet and consuming, burning just under the surface of his skin. He’s glad it’s not violent; he probably doesn’t have it in him to fight, anyway, just as he doesn’t have it in him to run anymore without choking on blood. His hands curl into fists.

”You’re fucked up,” he says.

There’s silence.

”You’re fucked up like no one else.”

Ouma laughs that time, once, a shrill noise. “You haven’t even seen the worst of it, Momota-chan.”

”I don’t think you can get much worse,” Momota spits back.

”Then promise not to be surprised when I do.”

Ouma’s voice sounds far away. Momota can’t tell if that’s a lie.

His nails start digging into his palms. Here, through everything, is his result: Ouma, unchanged, saying the same kind of shit Momota spent well over an hour trying to get him to shut up about. Whether or not he’s lying or making a genuine threat, it doesn’t matter; him talking in general is proof that Momota wasted his time.

”I told you,” Momota says anyway, “not to _fuck_ _around_ with that kind of—“

“Don’t you have friends to go meet?” Ouma says.

“...Hm?”

”It’s almost nighttime at this point. Aren’t Killer Girl and Boy Detective waiting for you?”

Momota glances to his left, where the floor-to-ceiling window takes up the whole wall. To be fair, it’s been dark for a while, but it’s only gotten lighter; when Momota looks back at Ouma, he takes a step closer, and the light of the moon is just enough to illuminate his face.

And...it’s Ouma.

It’s the same Ouma it’s always been. Of course it is. Momota hates that he can’t tell how to feel about that. Maybe this would be easier if he looked...more menacing, and not so...

”I think our game is kinda ruined,” Ouma says, gesturing to the jacks on the floor.

Momota looks at them.

”It’s okay, though,” Ouma continues. “Winning against a hypocrite never feels much like a true victory, anyway.”

Momota spins back around. Ouma blinks at him.

”If _I’m_ a hypocrite,” he stresses, “then what the hell are _you?_ ”

”Honest.”

Momota actually laughs at that one. Genuinely laughs. It’s the stupidest thing he’s heard that night.

”Oh!” Ouma gasps, right as he stops. “Don’t laugh too hard, Momota-chan!” His voice drops in pitch. “Keep at that, and blood might come up with it.”

Momota frowns.

” _That’s_ why you’re a hypocrite,” Ouma says. “Momota-chan. If only you could get it through your stupid, thick skull.”

Momota doesn’t respond. He could be pissed off, but he really just feels like this shit has hit the point of pathetic.

Ouma sighs and keeps talking. “What a shame. Going out later to train for the better, or whatever it is... And your friends not knowing that you’re on the brink of death. Kind of ironic, huh.”

”I’m _not_ on the fucking brink of death,” Momota finally counters.

“Okay,” Ouma shrugs. “Say what you want.”

Momota takes a deep breath and lets it go. Ouma takes a step closer towards him.

”This was fucking pointless,” Momota says, voicing his thoughts. “I don’t even know why I came looking for you.”

Ouma comes closer. “Because you’ll play your role as much as you can, Momota-chan, right up until you can’t anymore.”

”Yeah, fucking whatever,” Momota hisses. “I shouldn’t have put up with this for so long.”

”Stop worrying so much, then. I’ll be dead soon, anyway.”

”Don’t,” Momota starts, impulsively, and he puts a hand against his head. Ouma settles in front of him, about a foot away, peering up at his face.

“Don’t say that kind of shit,” Momota finishes. “Making it about yourself doesn’t make it better.”

”Well, it’s not a joke,” Ouma frowns. He tugs at Momota’s jacket where it’s hanging from his shoulder. “ _You’re_ the joke, if anything. You’ll talk sooo, so much, but you’ll never save anyone.”

Momota drops his hand, surprised and—angry, yeah, there it is.

Ouma is sneering. “You’d probably kill them first.”

Momota gets a hand at his scarf again, and Ouma’s eyebrows go up, and they both inhale sharply, and then Momota is thinking about—the other time, that night, he’d put a hand on him, and—and he releases Ouma instantly, as if burnt.

Ouma makes a surprised sound when Momota pushes him away.

”You don’t know me,” Momota asserts, and it comes out a little bit more horrified than he’d have liked it to. He takes a shaky breath. “Ouma. You don’t.”

Ouma blinks up at him, his eyes wide, his skin pale in the moonlight. The lattice design casts an intricate shadow over his face, baring some parts and masking the others.

”You,” Ouma starts, and then he stops to clear his throat. “ _You_ don’t know _me_.”

They stare at each other. In a way, the silence feels like a challenge.

”...Come on, hero,” Ouma mocks. He reaches his hand out again, slowly, to touch the front of Momota’s jacket. “At least you figured _that_ out.”

Ouma’s hand is so small. Momota looks down at his fingers, wrapped in the fabric of his jacket. He could—stop him, from doing that. He could hit him away. He could take his hand and crush it, easily, with his own.

He also realizes that he doesn’t want to.

“I’m going to collect my jacks now,” Ouma tells him. “So, you can leave.”

“...Ouma,” Momota says.

”So long as you remember the important part,” Ouma says, and releases him. He steps to the side, where the pieces of their long-forgotten game are scattered, and kneels to the floor. “You can forget the rest happened.”

Momota watches him for a moment, carefully picking the jacks up one by one to toss in their bag.

“...Listen,” he says, “man...”

Ouma visibly tenses, facing the floor. “ _Leave_ ,” he responds. He tilts his head up to face Momota; their eyes meet.

”If it makes it easier,” Ouma says, and his expression and voice are both strange, practically unreadable, “you can even forget about wanting to kiss me.”

”I didn’t want—“

”Neither did I.”

They speak over each other hastily, and then they say nothing at all.

For the second time, their silence is more telling than they mean it to be; it feels like, for once, they might be on the same page about something— _one_ thing, no words required, no actions, just tacit, but then—but then Ouma turns away, and Momota averts his eyes, and the moment has vanished with no lasting evidence to prove it’d ever occurred.

Ouma continues cleaning.

Momota continues standing.

Momota could...do a lot of things, right then, on a whim. He could demand they talk, again, in an attempt to truly break through; he could lash out, and kick the jacks, and scatters them further; he could drop to the floor, offer a hand, say, “Here, let me help you, you deserve to be safe, like all of us, and I won’t give up on you,” but—

But Momota can’t do that.

He doesn’t want to.

Ouma is cruel. Ouma is mean. He enjoys hurting people, or so he says, and that’s bad enough. He gets joy out of seeing their classmates squirm, or panic, because of the trouble he creates. He doesn’t care for their feelings, or even his own. He cares about the game; he cares about causing problems.

Ouma wouldn’t want him to help, Momota tells himself. Momota wouldn’t want to help him, either.

That’s just who they are.

And so he sighs, and doesn’t say anything, and he turns instead towards the staircase, walking slowly.

When Momota reaches the railing, and from elsewhere in the building, the nighttime announcement blares, ringing and warbled around him, he stops, and he glances back to the window.

The light shines down on an empty floor.

If anyone had been there, they’re now long gone, along with any traces of what they may have said or done.

So Momota leaves, and he doesn’t look back.

**Author's Note:**

> these two, ch4: we’ll never change our perceptions of each other
> 
> john mulaney, pointing at ch5: And Then They Did.
> 
> i’m also on twitter now apparently (@/selfimmolatings), but i also got locked out! somehow? so we’ll see how that develops.
> 
> as always, thanks for reading!


End file.
